


H is for Hangover

by Janieshi



Series: Alphabet [8]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Drunken Kissing, F/M, Hangover, Heavy Petting, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Morning After, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: In which too much alcohol was consumed and mistakes were made - Mustang can't quite remember what exactly those mistakes were, but he knows he's not imagining the mutual lack of pants.





	H is for Hangover

_Hangover /ˈhæŋoʊvə / noun – 1) The disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache, nausea, or dizziness. 2) Any aftermath of or lingering effect from a distressing experience._

* * *

 

_Previously, on Alphabet Series:_

_"Never have I ever gotten so wasted that I woke up in someone else's bed with no recollection of how I'd gotten there," Havoc said triumphantly._

_Hawkeye and Mustang looked at each other in alarm."_

 

**circa 1909, approximately 35 miles northwest of East City (5 years pre-series)**

Consciousness returned to him slowly, in a series of woozy observations that didn’t quite make sense.

Too bright.

Too warm.

Head _pounding…_ each heartbeat accompanied by a painful throb in his brain.

Mouth leeched of moisture, tongue thick and fuzzy and tasting vaguely of week-old gym socks. And oh god, his _breath_.

Roy stirred slightly, noting that his limbs felt weak and heavy. And when he finally dragged open his eyelids, he understood why.

There was a woman lying on his chest.

And not just _any_ woman. Oh, no. Sound asleep on Roy’s bare chest? That would be none other than Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye: decorated veteran and sharp-shooting prodigy extraordinaire, his friend of several years and subordinate of only a few short months.

And not only was she sleeping practically on top of him, but one of her long, shapely, bare legs was trapped between his…or was it his leg that was trapped between hers? In any event, their limbs were entwined, neither was fully clothed, his head hurt like a bitch, and his bladder was full to bursting, and oh fuck, was that what he thought it was?

Yep.

Fan _fucking_ tastic.

On top of everything else, Roy was also fully and undeniably erect, so hard he was aching _._ If Riza woke up now, there was no way she wouldn’t notice, and just how in the hell was he going to explain _that_ , especially considering he had no memory of the circumstances that had led to their sharing a bed in the first place? Could it possibly have been innocent if they were tangled together like this?

Even as that slightly panicked thought crossed his mind, Hawkeye stirred and made a gentle hum of protest. Her smooth, warm thigh brushed against his erection, sending a jolt of electricity racing through him. His hips bucked involuntarily, chasing contact, and he cursed himself for a fool.

For god’s sake, he wasn’t an animal! And he was _not_ going to dry hump his unconscious subordinate’s thigh like some pitiful sex-starved teenager just because it was there!

Stiffly (in more than one sense of the word) he climbed out of the bed, managing to extricate himself without disturbing the sleeping woman draped across him. Relieving his bladder and splashing some cold water on his face took care of his most pressing problem, and left him free to consider the larger issue.

What in the _hell_ had happened last night?

Arms braced on either side of the sink, Mustang stared at his reflection in the tiny mirror and willed his memories to surface.

Obviously there had been alcohol involved, judging from his hangover - and the lapse in memory.

All right. That was a good starting point: He remembered why he had _started_ drinking, at least.

Their mission had been a spectacular failure. The man they’d come all the way out here to recruit had pulled a gun on them the moment their boots had touched his front step. The threat, weak though it had been, had triggered memories that were best left buried, leading to a tense stand-off between a terrified civilian who wanted nothing to do with the military and an unusually edgy sharpshooter-cum-bodyguard who’d been trained to always go for the kill shot.

Lieutenant Colonel Mustang had had to do some very fast talking, but in the end he’d persuaded the civilian to lower his weapon, and Hawkeye had pulled herself together once that threat was neutralized. Mustang and Hawkeye had then returned to their tiny motel with their figurative tails tucked between their legs, each trying to pretend that they didn’t know exactly how close Hawkeye had come to putting a bullet in the brain of an innocent man.

Afterwards, Mustang had been restless, unwilling and unable to attempt to sleep. And so he’d sought solace in cheap alcohol instead. Hawkeye, on the other hand, had taken herself to bed early, and suffered terrible nightmares for her trouble.

Since their rooms shared a wall, Mustang had heard the agonized cry as she jolted awake—and the choking sobs that had followed. Unable to bear the sounds of her distress, he’d flicked on the tiny wireless radio in his room.

He’d heard her anyway.

Torn between the hope that she’d want company and the hope that she wouldn’t, Mustang had filled a second glass and waited, heart in his throat. Hawkeye had come to his door less than a quarter of an hour later, pale and still trembling, and accepted his offer of vodka and sympathy without hesitation.

They’d ended up talking about their nightmares. Slowly at first, haltingly. Gaining confidence from the understanding in each other’s eyes, and finding catharsis as the words poured out, they’d started to share ever more intimate details: about their experiences in Ishval, about the ghosts that haunted them, about their darkest fears. It had almost felt like they were teenagers again, huddled under a shared quilt and sharing whispered confidences with the starry sky above.

That intimacy, far more potent than the cheap booze, had made Mustang nearly giddy. It was a far cry from the way they’d been tip-toeing around each other ever since she’d become his direct subordinate. Their personal relationship had grown uncertain and tentative beneath the layers of strict professionalism - and those ever-present ‘sirs’ of hers.

Not that he disapproved of the formality, necessarily…but he wouldn’t have minded if she dropped her guard a _little_ when they were alone. Behaved more like an old friend rather than a brand-new subordinate. Revealed a bit more of the woman hidden so carefully behind the dutiful solider - the one he’d caught only glimpses of, since their reunion.

And so the drastic change, her willingness to display those cracks in her façade _for him_ ; to seek out and accept whatever comfort he could offer, to let him _see_ her…all of it made Roy appreciate just how much he’d missed their friendship.

Missed _her_.

And that’s about when things got hazy.

They’d danced at some point, hadn’t they? Sometime after their fourth (or maybe fifth?) drink, a man on the radio had been crooning something sad in a low, husky voice. The song had reminded Riza of her Academy days, of going out dancing with her friends on the weekends. Roy had said something about wishing he could’ve been there to see that. Riza had shyly asked if he wanted to see now.

He’d agreed, more quickly than he probably should’ve, and they’d swayed together right there in the middle of his dingy little hotel room to the strains of a heart-breaking song about love and loss. Even half-drunk, dressed only in rumpled pajamas, Riza had still been so graceful. And so damn beautiful.

Was that when Roy had pulled her a little too close? When he’d run his hands slowly up and down her spine as she shivered against him? He’d pressed a kiss into her hair, he recalled suddenly. He’d been overcome with _wanting_ , unable to help himself, and –oh. _That’s_ when…

She’d looked up at him, dazed, cheeks lightly flushed from the alcohol. And then slowly, deliberately, she’d drawn his lips down to meet hers.

Was that the moment he’d completely given up any attempt at self-control? As her fingers had carded through his hair, blunt nails lightly scratching his scalp? Or was it when his greedy hands had slipped beneath her flimsy cotton camisole and she had gasped and arched into his touch? Before or after he’d trailed searing kisses down the slender column of her neck, rendering her boneless in his arms? At what point had she pulled back to look into his eyes, breathless, silently questioning, her lips red and swollen and her pupils blown wide?

Why hadn’t she objected?

More importantly, why hadn’t he stopped himself?

Stupid question, really. That particular woman, coming to him willingly and responding eagerly to his caresses – _that_ was something he’d dreamt of, fantasized about, for longer than he was willing to admit. Even now, his vague, foggy memories were causing that all-too-familiar heat to pool low in his belly, and he found himself taking slow, deep breaths in an attempt to reassert control over his biology.

This, whatever _this_ was…whatever it had been…it couldn’t happen again.

Riza was special. _Precious_. She deserved better than this – deserved better than being groped by her superior officer in a haze of alcohol-induced lust. She deserved better than being taken advantage of when she’d been vulnerable and emotional and in need of a friend to comfort and soothe. She deserved better than _him_.

He’d sworn to look after her. To protect her. And in the space of one evening he’d shown them both that he couldn’t even protect her from himself.

Oh god, what had he _done_?

Mustang hung his head, unable to meet his own eyes in the bathroom mirror.

* * *

 

So intent were Mustang’s thoughts, he failed to notice the soft rustling of sheets from the bedroom behind him.

Stretching her limbs languorously, Hawkeye winced as her own throbbing headache made itself known. Slowly and somewhat awkwardly, she dragged her aching body upright, frowning at the bright light streaming through the gap in the curtains. Her eyes traveled down her own body, and the thin camisole and panties she still wore, before drifting along the trail of rumpled clothing strewn across the floor. Finally, they came to rest on the empty bottle and glasses sitting on the table.

It didn’t take long to locate her pajama bottoms among the other detritus, but the effort of pulling them back on drained her, and Hawkeye sank onto the end of bed with a barely-suppressed groan. Only then did she turn her attention to the small bathroom, where she found her superior officer, clad only in boxers, staring into the mirror above the sink as if he’d never seen his own reflection before.

She watched him for a long moment before she spoke.

“Would you mind relocating your dazed stupor, sir? I’d like to use the facilities, is all,” she said.

Mustang whirled around far too quickly at the sound of her voice, making himself dizzy in the process.

Hawkeye looked about as wrecked as he felt, he noted, perched on the edge of the bed in wrinkled nightclothes, with her hair sticking up at odd angles and her eyes scrunched up against the bright light. The expression on her face reminded him of a grumpy child woken too soon from a nap. And at that thought, something twisted uncomfortably in Roy’s stomach.

When he didn’t respond to her query, she raised an expectant brow at him.

“Oh-I…yes, sorry, of course,” he stuttered, stepping out of the en suite and waving a hand in a vague ‘go ahead’ motion. She smirked faintly and padded past him on bare feet, shutting the door carefully behind herself.

Scrubbing a hand over his face didn’t do anything to clear his disordered thoughts, so Mustang decided to focus on gathering up his scattered clothes.  He only got as far as pulling on a pair of trousers over his boxers before he sank to the edge of the bed in despair, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now.

This, of course, was the exact moment Hawkeye chose to rejoin him.

“Have you finished having your existential crisis, yet?” she asked lightly, leaning against the bathroom door frame. She considered the hunched shoulders, furrowed brow, and haunted eyes of the man before her. “Evidently not,” she sighed.

Mustang’s frown deepened, but he didn’t reply. Pushing away from the doorway, Hawkeye hesitated only a second before crossing the room to stand in front of him.

“Are we going to talk about this?” she asked quietly.

“I’ll understand if you wish to lodge a formal complaint, Second Lieutenant,” Mustang managed, his throat tight. “I had absolutely no right to touch you. Though the exact details are somewhat – _unclear_ …I know that being under the influence doesn’t excuse my conduct,” he added hastily. “I don’t dare ask for your forgiveness, but I still—I wanted to offer you my sincere apologies for anything I may have said or done last night.”

Hawkeye’s eyes widened, just for a second, before narrowing dangerously.

“With all due respect, sir, have you lost your fucking mind?” she snapped. “A formal complaint? I’m not your goddamned _victim_ in this.”

Mustang gaped at her. He’d never heard Hawkeye swear before: not when they were kids, not surrounded by death in the Ishvalan deserts, and certainly not since becoming her C.O.

“Are you always so crabby when you’re hungover?” he blurted out, before he could stop himself.

“I usually go out drinking with Catalina, who is a disturbingly chipper morning person known for drinking men twice her weight under the table on a semi-regular basis. What do _you_ think?” she retorted.

Unsure how to respond to that, Roy huffed out a weak laugh before burying his aching head in his hands. He felt the mattress dip as Hawkeye sat down beside him.

“Last night...” he murmured without looking at her. “Are you not at all concerned by what happened between us?”

“To be perfectly honest, sir, I’m more concerned by the fact that we’ve already missed the early train,” she replied.  Mustang lifted his head at once to consult the clock, as if Hawkeye hadn’t already done so.

“Fuck!”

“There’s another in a few hours; it’ll be fine. The general wasn’t expecting us back so soon, anyway,” she soothed.

“Seriously, how can you be so calm?” he demanded, staring at her. She met his gaze steadily.

“What would you have me do, sir? Don sackcloth and ashes and tear my hair? Fall into a swoon like some sort of damsel in distress?”

“I- well, no, I suppose not. But still, I don’t…that is, considering how we…” he stammered to a halt, confused. “I believe I owe you an apology, at the very least,” he finally said.

“You have _nothing_ to apologize for,” she insisted, placing a hand on his arm. “I was the one who came to you, last night. And -”

“And I then proceeded to get you drunk,” Mustang interrupted, suddenly furious. “After which I evidently took advantage of your emotional distress, and…and I don’t even – I can’t even _remember_ – I don’t even know whether or not we used protection,” he admitted, closing his eyes against the wave of self-loathing that rushed through him.

“What do you…” Hawkeye trailed off, confused. And then the lightbulb went on, and a blush bloomed across her cheekbones. “ _Oh_.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” he spat, irritated. Hadn’t she remembered what they’d done last night, either? Was she just figuring it out _now_?

There was a long beat of silence, and Mustang’s heart twisted painfully. This was it. This was the part where he was going to lose her for good.

“Roy Mustang, you are a complete and utter **fuckwit** ,” Hawkeye informed him.

Mustang’s jaw dropped open in shock.

“First of all, we didn’t sleep together,” she explained, faintly amused. “We just… _slept_ together.”

“Wait, what?” he cried. There had definitely been more than just sleeping…hadn’t there? Had he merely dreamed all of those heated kisses and lingering caresses? He certainly hadn’t imagined their mutual lack of pants, that much was certain.

“Second of all,” she went on, ignoring him. “And let me go on the record here: You didn’t ‘get me drunk.’ I’m the one who drank all that vodka; no one was pouring it down my throat. I was fully aware of how much I was drinking _and_ how it was likely to affect me.”

“But–” he protested, uncertain.

“Would you drop the martyr bullshit, already?” she cried, exasperated. “I’m just as much to blame as you are; I was there, too. You didn’t take _advantage_ of me, understand? You didn’t do anything that I didn’t want you to do.”

Mustang didn’t dare think too hard about that last statement.

“None of this bothers you in the slightest?” he demanded, glaring at her.

“Of course it bothers me,” Hawkeye said, wearily. “But I can’t go back now and stop myself from making a series of extremely poor choices, can I?”

“No, but…”

“But nothing,” she interjected, shaking her head. “We did something stupid. Was it fantastically unprofessional, of the both of us? Yes! Inadvisable? Wildly inappropriate? Without question! But it _happened_. We can’t change that. So stop overthinking it.”

“ _Over_ think— I don’t even remember what we **did**!” Mustang thundered.

“Nothing irrevocable,” Hawkeye replied softly, looking away.

“Are you _sure_?” he asked, with a sort of feverish hope.

“I’m sure,” she promised. With a glimmer of humor, she added:  “In fact, you fell asleep on me before things got really interesting.”

“Oh, god,” Mustang hid his face, overwhelmed by the wave of mingled shame and relief. “I am _so_ sorry.” And abruptly realizing how that had sounded, he swore. “ _Fuck_. And that’s incredibly egotistical; I didn’t mean to imply—I truly am sorry, Hawkeye.”

“Stop apologizing,” Hawkeye said, firmly. But she had to bite the inside of her cheek to hide her grin.

Mustang sighed, and was silent for some minutes. Finally he lifted his head again and looked her in the eyes.

“I **need** you, Hawkeye,” he confessed softly. Hawkeye inhaled sharply, but let him speak. “I told you this once before: you’re too important to me; I can’t _lose_ you because of a drunken mistake.” His voice took on a desperate edge as he went on. “I need you watching my back. I need you by my side. And I don’t want something like _this_ to come between us, or to…to interfere with our professional relationship.”

“Then don’t let it,” Hawkeye replied softly.

“It’s not that simple!” he cried.

“Why not?”

“I…I don’t know,” he said faintly, with furrowed brow. “We can’t just…pretend nothing happened.”

“I didn’t say that we should,” she countered. In spite of the flush that still lingered on her cheeks, Hawkeye held her head high. “I’m simply suggesting that we move forward without letting it adversely affect the way we treat each other, either as friends or as colleagues.”

“Just like that?” Mustang asked, skeptical. Could it possibly be that simple?

“Look,” Hawkeye paused, and her eyes flashed with some unidentifiable emotion. When she continued, her voice was softer, more serious. “Last night, I was…emotionally distraught. I’d have killed that man, in front of his little girl, without a second thought. And that terrifies me.”  Her voice faltered as she went on: “Then those _dreams_. I just—” she pursed her lips and shook her head slightly.

“You weren’t the only one affected,” Roy reassured her, taking her hand in his without thinking.

“I know,” Riza managed, looking down at their joined hands. “And that’s precisely my point: seeking out physical comfort to alleviate emotional distress isn’t exactly uncommon. It’s a human impulse.”

“What are you trying to say?” Roy asked softly.

“That we shouldn’t be ashamed, I suppose?” she replied. She shrugged, uncertainty creeping across her features. “Or, that what happened between us is a normal reaction to a traumatic experience? With that being said, though, I think we need to be a lot more careful about maintaining the boundary between our professional and personal relationships.”

“You think we have boundary issues?” Mustang interjected, frowning. Hawkeye leveled him with a stare.

“We got drunk and made out like teenagers. Does that sound like something most adjutants do with their bosses?”

“Fair point,” he murmured, trying not to smile.

“We have a history,” Riza said, lightly squeezing his hand for emphasis. “We were close, once, and I can’t pretend that we weren’t. _But_ ,” she sighed and stared down at their joined hands. “You’re also my direct superior, and that’s something I can’t ignore, either.”

“You didn’t,” Mustang started to protest, but Riza raised a hand to stop him.

“I put you in an awkward position, last night, by bringing my personal problems to your door. If I hadn’t done _that_ , then we wouldn’t be sitting here right now having this conversation. And for that, _I_ probably owe _you_ an apology.”

“Riza, you can _always_ come to me if you need to talk,” Roy said urgently. “Don’t think for a moment that I care more about protocol or goddamned _rank_ than I do about your well-being. You hear me?”

“Thank you, sir,” Hawkeye replied, offering him a faint smile. “And the same goes, of course. But still…I shouldn’t have come to you at all, last night. I probably shouldn’t have been drinking, and I _definitely_ shouldn’t have stayed here. Anyone might have seen us, and we can’t afford to have people making assumptions.”

“That’s why you’ve been so distant, these past few months,” Mustang realized. “I thought… I’d wondered,” he admitted softly. He’d been starting to think she regretted the decision to follow him.

“Yes, well,” Hawkeye smiled, a little sadly. “If we’re going to get you to the top, sir, then our conduct needs to be above reproach. And if anyone knew that we’d stayed in the same motel room…what did or didn’t _actually_ happen between us wouldn’t matter. You know that, and so do I.”

“I understand that we need to be more cautious,” Mustang said carefully. “But I don’t think we need to act as though we’re complete strangers, either.”

“How do you mean, sir?” Hawkeye frowned.

“You’re my bodyguard; my personal assistant. It’d look odd if we _didn’t_ get to know each other well, given how much time we spend together,” he explained. “So, if you’re still serious about helping me reach the top – ow!”

He rubbed his arm where Hawkeye had just punched it.

“Of course I am,” she grumbled. “ _Idiot_.”

“My _point_ ,” he growled, glaring at her and still rubbing at his arm. “Is that the longer we’re together, the more natural it is that we develop a close relationship – personal **and** professional. It would look odder if we _didn’t_. People would start to wonder what we’re hiding.”

Hawkeye blinked, considering that for a moment.

“Damn,” she finally sighed. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“Neither had I,” he confessed. “My aunt pointed it out to me a few weeks ago.” And Grumman had been giving him particularly searching looks, lately, but he thought it was best not to mention that part. It would only make Hawkeye more paranoid.

“I’m not really sure what to do, now,” Hawkeye admitted quietly. Mustang lightly bumped her shoulder with his.

“Well, for starters, I think we should eat something before the nausea kicks in,” Mustang replied. “Preferably something greasy and starchy.”

“ _Pommes_ _frites_ and a soft drink,” Hawkeye suggested, amused. “At least, that’s Catalina’s standard hangover cure. And believe me, she would know.”

“Sounds better than Hughes’s – he swears by dill pickle spears washed down with a triple espresso,” Mustang laughed.

“Either way, seems that salt and caffeine are key,” Hawkeye chuckled. “I saw a little diner down the road. I’m sure they’ll have something suitable.”

“I’ll buy – but only if you promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Please don’t tell Catalina about any of this?” he begged. “I’m pretty sure she’d assassinate me for attempting to corrupt your virtue.”

A startled laugh escaped her lips.

“Oh, I’m more than pretty sure – she’d make sure you saw it coming, too,” she assured him.

“Knowing her, she’d make sure it was something slow and horribly painful,” Mustang groaned. He dragged himself to his feet and ran a hand through his disordered hair. “I assume you aren’t planning to be seen in public like that?” he asked.

Hawkeye glanced down at herself and then shot him a venomous glare. Mustang just snorted.

“Come on. I’ll check that the coast is clear so you can go back to your room and change.”

Hawkeye followed him to the door and waited while he stuck his head out to ensure no one was nearby.

“All right, clear,” he announced. As Hawkeye passed him, he reached out and caught hold of her wrist. She turned to look at him, slightly startled. “Hey…are we okay?” he asked.

She smiled, a little sadly.

“We will be,” she promised.


End file.
